This is it
by Snap.Crackle.Cez
Summary: 20 sweet, supposedly perfect years with Ron. In every sense, it had been perfect, in a predicable happy-ever-after way. But Hermione found it monotonous. It was hard to play the perfect healer, mother and wife when she needed more. The opposite is just what she needs. HG/DM.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer- I own nothing. JK owns it all and I just play with them.

This starts off a bit slow, mainly because I wanted to show the way Hermione thought about Ron, and to show her state of mind.

I haven't written in about 4 years, be nice :]

**Prologue.**

Hermione clenched her teeth and clicked her tongue impatiently; Ron, her sweet, predictable husband had the most infuriating habits. His incessant tapping on the table was going to drive her up the wall. Twenty years had not shortened her temper or made him any more sensitive to his pig-headedness or irritating, maddening, _frustrating_ ways.

"Hey Hermione, check this out..."

She sipped her coffee, reminding herself that patience, _so much patience_, was the key to dealing with him. When had it gotten so hard? Had it always been? Were they always so absolutely and completely different? Hermione couldn't imagine so, but their friendship had never been easy.

She breathed in, watching as the dusty morning sun filtered through and reflected off the faux oak cupboards, onto the ivory of the floor tiles. It glittered across the suds of soap that dripped lazily down the back of pans Ron had used to cook pancakes, bacon and eggs. He really was a wonderful husband, a wonderful provider. He was careless but not callous, forgetful but not thoughtless.

It was why she turned and faced her husband, why Hermione propelled herself towards the antique oak table and leant in over Ron's slumped, robe clad shoulders. He was reading the Quibbler- they had a free subscription - and was chortling at a cartoon inside.

Her lips tightened; it was better suited for Hugo than Hermione and perhaps Ron felt the same for he leant back and bellowed his son's name,

"Oi, Hugo! Hugo! HUGO! HUUUUGOOOO!" There was the creak of a bed and the sound of footfalls above them.

The kitchen door swung open and Hugo drifted into the room. He was absolute proof that genes existed; his hair was the same, glaring red of his father and fell to his ears without a kink. His eyes were brown but freckles dotted his features like ink spots. His nose was long, sloping up into a narrow face with cheekbones that slanted towards narrow lips and teeth that were just a little too big. He was handsome, Hermione thought; his face had a boyish charm that was far too sophisticated to fit onto Ron's mulish features.

Ten years old, he flounced around with the poise of someone who had everything he wanted and hadn't grown up enough to appreciate it. Still, Hermione couldn't help but smile.

"What, Dad?" he huffed, exaggerating his exasperation.

They shared the joke in a way that only a father and son can; Hermione's smile grew. Ron really was brilliant with the kids. The kitchen, already filled with the warm glow of the spring morning, seemed to brighten with the sound of undignified snorts and laughter. The longer she watched them, the more her smile widened. She couldn't help it; there was something so innocent, pure, about her family. But she felt apart from it, like an aunt rather than a mother.

It drew her thoughts to her daughter; little Rose, now twelve, was coming to the end of her first year at Hogwarts. Her chest ached as she thought about how much she'd already grown in just a few months. At Christmas she had opted to stay at school and Hermione found her absence bittersweet. Unlike Hugo, who had the same fervour for knowledge as a younger Hermione, Rose was a gifted witch but had the swagger and mischievousness of her father- and more worryingly, her uncle George. There had been three letters home by Christmas and Hermione's lectures fell on deaf ears as Ron congratulated her on successfully confounding a very, very ancient Mr Filch and tricking him into carrying her books.

"Come back, Hermione."

She had drifted off again; Hugo had left and Ron was only inches away. His hands slid around her waist. He leant in to kiss her affectionately but Hermione only felt a flash of annoyance. She turned away and his lips brushed her cheek.

There was no hesitation. Ron released her. This was a dance they had been playing for months and Hermione wondered how much more she could take. The monotony of playing the perfect wife and mother had taken its toll on her. It wasn't that she didn't love her life, but she needed something revitalising, fresh and exciting.

She deserved that, she thought shamelessly. She fought in a legendary war and had sacrificed so much- the words carved into her arm were a constant reminder. The trouble, the life threatening situations, the painful loss she had suffered; the reunion with her parents had tripled her pain. They had been horrified to see her so grown up, after three years of searching. They loved their daughter but disliked how much they lost down to the magic she had gained. Their relationship was strained but what could Hermione do? She hadn't spoken to them since an awkward and depressing phone call in the nearest phone box over Christmas.

"D'you think Harry will be up for Quidditch this weekend? We haven't played for ages." His voice was heavy with anticipation.

"Mm, maybe," Had her voice always sounded this listless? A twinge of guilt forced her to continue more brightly. "Ginny says Harry's been restless."

Ron watched her finish her coffee and place it in the sink.

"Love you Hermione."

"Mmm."

Ron kissed her cheek softy, his eyes overcast, before apparating to work. He was training to teach; it still amused Hermione that Ronald Bilius Weasley would ever take an academic route by choice. He wasn't stupid but he certainly lacked a flair for it when they were at school. His previous job at Weasley Wizard Wheezes suited him better.

Then again, what did Ron have an aptitude for? He was lovely, of course, but what really stood out…

Hermione shook her head; it was unfair to think of Ron that way. He had given her everything, including two children who they both worshipped. He found something peaceful in teaching, but she couldn't help but find his anecdotes very boring. She should be happy for him- in fact, she was very happy for him- but was stuck in a spiral of doubt when it came to herself.

What did she really have in common with Ron? She suspected that throughout the war, his bravery and his warmth were a comfort; it had reminded her of much happier, much more exciting times. It had reminded her of Hogwarts, of the Burrow. Harry could never provide that relief; he had been too tormented, too tainted by evil and his destiny that he had no serenity about him. She loved Harry as a friend, a brother, but could never think of him in another way.

Some days she wished she could have; they would've gotten along so much better. She sighed; Ginny was perfect for him, what was she thinking? She couldn't even turn to Ginny for help- it was her brother Hermione was doubting, almost to the point of despising.

No, Ron had been good to her…but it wasn't enough. Her stomach felt heavy inside her body. She had never cheated on Ron- she loved him, of course- but it wasn't enough. She felt trapped in a home of domestic bliss, screaming to get out.


	2. 2

Author's Note- another slow chapter but yay, Malfoy! I'm trying to speed it up, but it's just not happening- pretty sure it's out of my system now however, so things should get interesting.

Thank you for the reviews, they are so pretty :')

St Mungo's Hospital was a grand, welcoming building unlike any muggle hospital Hermione had been to. It was a building she had found exciting- after the war, Hermione had trained to be a healer with a fervour that she could only explain as loyalty to those injured and lost. She had never even considered healing before- when did she get much chance? Every school year was not only a battle with some sort of _trouble _but her mounting responsibilities as a student.

Her choices had all but disappeared when she agreed- well, _decided_, really- to help Harry in her sixth year. She held no resentment- it had been a just cause- and in a poetic way, it had picked her path.

Hermione had adored being back in a practical, educational setting again; she had dived nose-first into all her medical books, becoming the know-it-all she'd always been teased about. Applying her knowledge and watching a man whose nose had been bitten clean off by his over-excited niffler after a piercing regrow it made her glow with satisfaction that she hadn't had since receiving top marks- well, _nearly_ top marks- in her OWLs.

Now she left with a sigh of relief. Using floo- powder to get her home, it felt like another day had chipped at her enthusiasm. She was stagnating; she knew Ron was holding her back.

Miserably, there was a tightening in her throat and a feeling of airlessness suffocated her. It had nothing to do with the spinning or the green flames lapping softly as she passed through the floo network. She couldn't grow under his umbrella of oppressive adoration and was now struggling to breathe in a job she hated. She couldn't move forward; the humdrum of her life felt like sinking sand, and the more she noticed and fought to escape, the deeper she sank until she could no longer draw her breath to scream.

She really needed a change that much was obvious.

Hermione worried her lip as she span into the fireplace in her living room. She methodically brushed the soot from her Healers robes and stepped gracefully on the navy rug that was splayed on the wooden flooring.

_Idiotic Healer Pennyworth_, she thought irritably. It was easy to blame him for her reluctance in her work. Sixty-five years old and a burden- a nuisance on her ward! He could not only fail to distinguish a boil from a blemish or an infection from a curse but he had awful organisational skills, leaving Hermione to deal with the debris he left scattered behind. Her patience was running thin with the spindly, bearded doctor; the thought of his scraggly chin fluff tickling her arm made her flinch. Vile.

'You're early from work," such a pleasant voice, filled with the warmth of home and the thrill of intimacy that only marriage can ignite. Ron scratched his nose demurely and smiled at her tenderly- _with love_.

"You too." She returned his smile with tired eyes, only a ghost of his genial expression. Hermione doubted that she could even plaster such a soppy, unashamed look of affection on her face. His obvious doting made her uncomfortable. "It was just so busy today, I could barely keep up. Something about the upcoming Easter holidays just seems to spur on family feuds. Twice, the same woman walked in today with her hair cursed off and her hands as small as buttons."

Menial, she could do. "How come you're home so early?"

Ron's face lit up like a tree at Christmas. He rose up and, if possible, seemed even taller than his usual self. As his pot belly grew, he seemed to shrink, Hermione thought, either that or he was gaining a permanent, old-man style slump to his shoulder. But now her husband drew himself to full, towering height and beamed at her, his face glowing.

"I've passed Hermione, I did it! They're observing me teaching for the next three months- I'll be an official Professor come September! Professor Weasley," he added dreamily. "Cool, huh?"

Hermione's face dropped, her mouth wide in a comical 'O'. All those months of preparation had actually paid off; late nights of practising spells and theories with him had not been a waste!

Regaining her composure before she insulted him, she cried, "that's brilliant, Ron! Congratulations! I knew you would!" Of course she did_, of course_. He may be oafish, but he wasn't unintelligent- just lacked common sense and intellect that challenged and piqued her interest…Okay, her eagerness was laid on thick to smother her guilt. Evidently, it had been laziness that had held him back.

She bounded forward, her elation colouring her cheeks, giddy with the happiness they shared together. She didn't have to love him, as least as a wife, to be so delighted. This deserved a celebratory meal; Mrs Weasley would most certainly cry.

But of course, he _could_ do it. Who would ever have thought that Ronald Weasley would ever qualify as a teacher? Nobody would have believed that he would be teaching Defence against the Dark Arts. He scraped by during school by sheer luck and a heavy reliance on Hermione. Hugo would be so proud! Rose would be horrified, Hermione knew. Ron would bark at any boy that dared to venture too close to Rosie.

In their excitement, they had moved closer together and he swooped down to kiss her mouth. Hermione froze beneath his soft lips and she felt her cheeks burn. He was trying to coax a response, willing to grant him entry but she remained motionless. His attempts to deepen the kiss were fruitless; she felt like a statue beneath his hot mouth.

There was a pause before Ron released his wife with a grunt and turned his back to her but not before she saw the darkness flash across his freckled features, his lips curling. He left the room without a word. Hermione trembled, knowing that she had left a bitterness hanging heavy in the air.

Xxx

_A few months later_

"We have a few new patients today, Hermione!"

Damn Pennyworth. She bit her lip and counted to ten before slowly, _oh-so-slowly_, turning around to face the withering man who was waving four clipboards at her with indecent friendliness. His wrinkled bald head, which looked large on his wasted frame, was spattered with liver spots. His milky eyes were enlarged by his chunky, old fashioned glasses and his beard hung lank and wispy to his thin chest. He was immune to her standoffish manner and Hermione found it beyond infuriating.

"Oh, yes-?"

"Congratulations, I think are in order for Mr Weasley, I believe? Finally securing his job!" He was relentless. Ron had been at Hogwarts for a few days now, preparing his lessons before the September term could start. She had waved her goodbyes to both Hugo and Rose this morning. They had been far too excited to notice their mother's hands lingering too long, holding them just a little too tight…

Nosy, impossible man! He peered at her through his thick spectacles with the clear impression he was being polite. "I think my great granddaughter Elsie will be one of his students, she starts today, you see. She's a very remarkable child- bright, but a little air headed, I'll admit…"

Irritated and slightly mollified that anyone would name their child after a cow, Hermione glared at the shrivelled old man. "Yes, yes, it really is wonderful. What are we dealing with?" She walked with authority and purpose towards her ward, although she had no idea what to expect. She really needed a competent assistant.

"What? Oh yes, well- we have a man cursed by his wife, the usual I imagine! A child has tried to transfigure his little sister into a bouquet of flowers- quite sweet really; he was doing it as a present for his mother's birthday…" He drifted off with a hopeless smile. Hermione counted to three before clearing her throat pointedly. "Yes, well, she's a bit of a mess, covered in snapdragons and rose thorns. I told her, I said that you could fix her in a shake of dragon's tail, but she hasn't stopped crying- keeps pricking herself, see."

His was so incessant; his voice droned on and on. It was almost like History of Magic, but even then she had managed to resist the soporific tones of Professor Binns.

Hermione with the abruptness of her old head of house, Hermione snatched the files from the man's spindled fingers and scanned.

_Draco Malfoy_, the first chart read, _curse unknown, cast by wife, Astoria Malfoy.  
Symptoms: Migraines and pains across the chest, with deep wounds across abdomen and back; ability to walk is limited, possible spinal injury. Unable to cure wounds with usual healing spell. _

_WARNING: Dark Mark on left arm; contact security if any suspicious or unprovoked violence activity occurs._

Hermione's breath caught in her throat; the damned old man was still rabbiting on, but she had no idea what about. The thought of having Malfoy in her care made her feel sick; how could she treat him impartially?

Scanning the rest of the patient assessment forms- the flowered child, a women who had sprouted wings and a serious case of dragon pox- Hermione could not deny that _his_ case was the priority.

She fingered the board while she gathered her thoughts; it had been twenty long years since the battle, yet she could not help remembering Malfoy gazing down at her whilst his aunt carved hateful words into her body. She could not remember his expression, yet he was there. She remembered his sobs as Goyle burnt to death in the Room of Requirement. The many sides of Draco Malfoy, she thought scornfully as she thought of how he actively sought the death of Buckbeak. It seemed trivial, perhaps, to hate him for that after everything but she did. Another straw on the camel's back, so to speak.

Gathering her courage- she was a Gryffindor, after all- she stepped into the assessment room of her ward. It took her a few seconds to spot the sleek blonde head of the old Slytherin student but as soon as she laid eyes on him, there was no doubt that this man was a Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy's lips curled; his grey eyes examined Hermione as she marched toward his bed by the window, with an air that commanded respect and by Merlin, she was going to get it.

Malfoy had not changed much; his eyes held the malice of his teenage self, but age had caused creases in the corners that flared out like cracks in a window. His hair line had receded yet he did not look old; he was still groomed with robes that looked more expensive that her fanciest dresses, but he was wary as she walked forward. His fading hair had emphasised the length and points of his face which were carefully arranged into a neutral, blank expression.

"Right, Mr Malfoy- it says here you were cursed by your wife?" Professionalism. That would get her through. She glanced at her chart as if consulting it, but she was just avoiding his cold steel eyes. Of course, he had renounced his ways; he had spent time in prison and had lost a lot of the influence and respect which his family had so heavily relied on, but she would never feel comfortable around the man who had been so deeply tied with the death of Dumbledore.

"Yes." No elaboration. Fine.

"Do you know what curse she used? What was said?"

"Are you going to just repeat the same questions that that foolish old man has already asked me?"

Hermione stood stock still until she knew how to absolutely answer with her most sophisticated, no-nonsense manner. "We just have to double check these things, Mr Malfoy, sometimes things are forgotten in the aftermath of the…attack." Old resentments made her mouth trip over 'attack'.

"Do you remember any words, or incantations she may have said?" She prompted.

Clearly, Malfoy, despite his drop in status, was not used to being treated like everybody else; he still expected some sort of favouritism which he utilised so much in school. Maybe it was because Hermione was muggle-born, therefore beneath him. Old habits die hard.

He rolled his eyes and stared at Hermione with a look that said _enough is enough_. She breathed through her nose. This was not going to be easy, she could tell. This was absurd! She was his doctor- Healer- for Merlin's sake!

"Have it your way, Malfoy- I'm going to have to check your wounds. If you would please undo your robes." Her professionalism was slipping with every second.

Malfoy let out an ungraceful snort and efficiently unbuttoned his shirt, having to shift his weight to loosen it. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he grimaced as he pulled at the edges. Hermione could not stop her medical training taking over, noting how quickly he had burned up and the amount of pain he was attempting, vainly, to underplay.

With a practised hand, she pulled plastic gloves onto her hand with a complementary slap as they tightened around her wrist.

The lesions were monstrous; they gaped openly, giving Hermione a view that was too intimate for human eyes. Nobody had the right to gaze so explicitly into another person. They were clearly infected, the edging of the lacerations crispy under her gentle fingers. Most Healers would prefer to prod and poke with a wand, but most did not have her muggle background or curiosity in muggle medicine. Sometimes things can't be found by the touch of a wand.

It was ragged and Malfoy hissed as she slipped in to touch her finger to soft mucus that was starting to spill out like froth. Although there was no heavy bleeding, this was indicative of a really bad infection. "Would you watch what you're bloody doing, Granger?!"

Hermione raised her eyebrows to him; his sweaty forehead was creased and his panting was hot and heavy. It gave her a miniscule feeling of satisfaction to see Malfoy reduced to a sweaty, shuddering shell of his arrogant self.

"I'm going to give you something for the pain, Malfoy, but I'm going to have to dig a little deeper to get a sample of this." She held up her hand that had touched the wound; the moisture glistened innocently in the light.

Malfoy's jaw clenched.

Three hours later and there was no diagnoses. Essence of dittany had only cleared the infection for half an hour before it returned with a vengeance, the puss oozing out of Malfoy's injuries like he was overflowing with it.

Hermione was truly stumped; apparently his wife- Astoria- had apparated and was yet to be found. Although dark magic was rarely reportedly used anymore, books still existed. And more worryingly, these dark attitudes still existed with a willingness to find out more.

Astoria did not have a history in any dark arts, except for being in Slytherin but she was part of a long wizarding line. It didn't make her inherently evil, however, but there was no denying the malicious intent behind her attack.

Draco Malfoy's ego had taken a hit- perhaps it was just being treated by Hermione- but he tried to retain his dignity by being rude and malevolent.

"This is useless_- you are useless_! Get off me, I want another Healer."

"Do you have any idea what you're doing? My twelve year old son could carry that out with far more competency!"

"If you do that one more time, I am going to curse you into-" Hermione tapped her wand against his shredded back "-_fucking oblivion_!"

Draco Malfoy had probably deserved it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hey guys, sorry for the long wait, especially for something so small. University work is just eating up my time. This is finally the breakthrough chapter. woo. _

_Ive had some niiiice reviews, you're too kind! and lots of favourite'deded. Thanks guys, i love it! :D_

EDIT: Haha, i was going to post this like...over a week ago. Uploaded it and everything...Just didn't happen

_Mum, _

_Can you write to Dad? He won't leave me alone- keeps taking me aside and checking up on me, he keeps picking on me in lessons- I don't even like DADA! He's really horrible to all my friends and tried to keep me back on the Slytherin V Ravenclaw Quidditch match- apparently my Herbology isn't good enough but Professor Longbottom says I'm doing really well._

_Hugo is fine, he loves that dad teaches here- I don't think Dad bothers him as much. WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS? People are laughing, Mum. _

_Love, Rosie. _

Hermione couldn't help but snicker. _Well, Rose- it probably has something to do with the fact that you're so much like your father. _But it was unfair of Ron; he was behaving exactly how she thought he would. She knew Rose was a troublemaker but she was gifted- Hermione knew that Neville didn't have an issue with Rose's progress. He had told her so when he and Hannah had joined them for dinner.

It had been a month since Ron had started teaching. The mounting, stifling tension that had engulfed the house evaporated with his departure. Hermione never felt lonely- she felt free.

Clutching the letter, she gulped down her hot coffee before washing her mug in the sink. She was at work, hiding in fact from the vicious and sharp tongue of Draco Malfoy. They had managed to stop the gashes from secreting but they were not fully healing. The curse had stopped the skin from knitting together.

He was probably her most difficult patient… It wasn't the manner of his inflictions- she was quite used to stumbling across the unknown, but he was cold and purposefully obdurate. He never once referred to her heritage but his lips would curl into a sneer whilst she sang her spells, dripped potions and smothered creams across his stomach.

He was still shaky on his feet but refused Hermione's helping hands whenever he stumbled. In fact, he refused anyone's- she had even called in some well-known pureblood Healers to see if that would help, but he batted at their arms with the same ferocity he had thrown at Hermione and Pennyworth.

"You may have been a know-it-all at school, Granger, but you're bloody useless here!" He often snapped after a particularly painful bout of trial-and-error.

She never once corrected him when he called her Granger. Sometimes Pennyworth would stand up with his knobbly knees trembling and squeak, "It's Mrs Weasley you are talking to!" But he quickly floundered under Hermione's stare. It was freeing being her former self.

Resigning to the simple fact that she had a job to do, she forced her back straight and marched down the hall with as much authority as she could muster.

"Malfoy, how's it looking today?" No pleasantries now.

"You know what Granger, I think it's time I found myself a new Healer, and you're clearly not qualified for this." Malfoy was reading The Daily Prophet and his tone was conversational. He did not look up to see Hermione's face burn red. Her lip had taken a serious chewing since Malfoy had come under her care and she could taste blood as she gnawed at it, trying to stop herself snapping and throwing his charts at his ungrateful, shiny forehead.

"If that's what you want, Malfoy, I'm sure that can be arranged. If you don't want to try today's treatment, I can find you a _suitable_," her lips twisted like she'd bitten into a lemon, "healer."

"And what would today's experiment be, Granger? If you're going to tip acid into my wounds, quite frankly, I could just find Astoria for that…"

"Well, we won't know till we try, will we?"

"You haven't answered me, _what are we attempting today_?"

Now Hermione paused. She didn't really want to tell him that it was her own invention. That she had stayed up until the early hours of the morning, slaving away at it for nearly three weeks. The sooner he was out of her care, the better. But she doubted he'd let her go near him if he knew it wasn't even Ministry Approved…or fully tested. She had only cut her thumb with a small knife and it had sealed it instantly…but she wasn't under some mystery curse.

"Er- well, it's a potion we haven't tried yet. It is something…similar…to what they used on my father-in-law when he had similar injuries from a bite." No need to mention it was Voldemort's pet snake that had bitten him. Or maybe she should to remind him where he stood in her eyes. No need to mention either, that it had been a spell they used on Arthur, but it had given her the inspiration- same thing, almost.

Malfoy finally looked up from the newspaper. There were creases between his dusty brown eyebrows and a cautiousness that seemed to sniff out the careful non-truths behind Hermione's words.

"Haven't tried on me yet, or tried _ever_?" His voice dripped with contempt. It was irritating that Malfoy was actually somewhat intelligent behind his arrogant exterior. Frustrating. Supercilious old man.

"Not on you- it's been tested before." Had the truth ever been stretched so thin?

Perhaps her voice lacked satisfactory certainty because Malfoy's cold, steel eyes narrowed to slits. He glared at Hermione and she could almost see the cogs turning in his brain, analysing,

"What is the name of this potion? Have I heard of it?"

Damn. "No, probably not…I'm not quite sure of its English translation, its…Egyptian." Thank god, thank Merlin, thank goodness that Malfoy didn't take Ancient Runes. She will fool him, he will accept the treatment and he will walk out of her ward a better- well_, healed_- man. As long as he didn't find out; she would be butchered for using an unregistered potion.

But Malfoy was no fool. Although he was older, although his hair line was receding, although Draco Malfoy was bedridden, he drew himself up to his full height, his eyes boring into Hermione's, drawing on the aura that made the people shiver around the Malfoy family. His wounds must've been stretching painfully, but she could feel him willing her to tell him, to say what was already threatening to jump out between her lips. Was he casting something? His wand sat innocently on his lap…just pure Malfoy influence.

Hermione cleared her throat and glared at him reproachfully. He may not be using magic, but she felt riled. "If you don't want this treatment, that's fine but do not treat me like a subordinate, Malfoy. I am a Healer, I'm not exactly known for taking unnecessary risks."

"That's not exactly true, is it Granger? Your years at school are not unknown."

Hermione pursed her lips. His arrogance! His absolute bloody egotism!

"Yes, because _you're_ known for _your_ high grades and credits to the school!" The words snapped from Hermione's mouth before she could control herself. Malfoy's eyebrows raised and his lip curled, whether in disgust or amusement, she couldn't tell.

Trying for some modicum of composure, she straightened up and cleared her throat. "I'll arrange for you to be moved to a different ward, Mr Malfoy. Good luck."

She span around, breathing hard. Why, after all these years, these long years, did he still get under her skin? She felt thirteen again and swinging for him before Buckbeak's execution.

"Wait, Granger- you're right, you are right." No apologies, she noted. "I'll try your _tried and tested_ potion."

Hermione couldn't even summon a response. She mutely pulled the phial from her pocket and flicked the cork off the top. The potion was a murky purple, with a pearlescent haze. Now her heart was pounding; if this went wrong, it would be more than her job on the line. Ron would surely suffer if his wife was found to be brewing potions and testing them on patients.

Too late for doubts. She handed Malfoy the phial, controlling the tremor that shook her hands. He took with slender fingers, his steely eyes watching her face.

"And I swallow it all?"

"Yes."

Her stomach was in knots; she felt sick. Only exams caused this type of sweating, her spine slick with heat.

Malfoy winced as the liquid slid down his throat. As he closed his lips, a puff of smoke issued from his mouth, like he'd be sucking on a cigarette. The knots tightened painfully.

Moments ticked by.

God, Merlin…whoever, just give her some response.

Malfoy shivered.

Five, painfully long seconds, seconds that felt like minutes, ticked by.

Then, Malfoy shook and his eyes flew open. "It's _burning, It's burning_!"

Panic. Floods of panic, threatening to drown her. She couldn't breathe but she had to act! It hadn't burnt for her!

Malfoy was half yelling, convulsing on the bed, his hands scrabbling uselessly at his bed ropes.

"Granger, it's burning! _What have you done_?! _GRANGER_!"

Marching over, trying not to hyperventilate with her career crashing and burning around her, she peeled Malfoy's angry hands away from his chest. His eyes screamed at her, calling her things he would never say out loud in a hospital.

"Fucking hell, Granger! _What the fuck is this_?"

Exposing his chest and stomach, his wounds expelled the same wispy smoke that had come from his mouth; his wounds were leaking, but it was clear. Already an improvement, she noted weakly.

"Granger…"

"I-I'm-I'm just having a look, this-this is meant to happen." Her voice betrayed her.

Malfoy half-shouted, half moaned as Hermione slapped on gloves and poked cautiously at his wounds, waving away the haze that had settled around him. They were no longer soft and thin beneath her fingers; the skin was hardening, strengthening.

Relief nearly made her sag towards the bed, but triumph held her still.

"I think I've done it."

"_What the fuck do you mean, done it?! What have you given me_?"

"It's just the potion doing its job, the wounds are healing."

"THEN WHY DOES IT HURT SO BLOODY MUCH?" His body jerked as his spine cracked loudly and he cried out.

"I'll check on you in an hour, but I think we're on the right path."

"So help me, Granger, if you leave this fucking room, I will have you for feeding me this fucking poison. I don't care if it helps, I know this was some fucking pet experiment of yours."

Hermione froze, ignoring Malfoy's cries. "I-"

"Always had to be the one on the fucking top, could never stand to be stumped, could you Granger?" He words were hissed as he panted for breath, arching and writhing as his wounds smoked innocently.

Small steps took her to the seat by the bed, small steadying breaths cleared her head. There was something very satisfying to sit down, to watch Malfoy curl and flex on his bed, knowing that her potion was working. Painfully, she could see, but working just the same.

His mysterious injuries. Watching Malfoy, listening to the thread of insults he threw at her, she wondered what had caused his wife- someone who had voluntarily entered into a life time commitment with him- to curse him with something virtually incurable.

She could understand why one would want to curse him, he was an egotistical bigot with an inflated sense of his own importance, but clearly Astoria Malfoy had seen past that. Unless she was marrying the name? But that didn't make sense either; whilst the Malfoy name still made wizards and witches uncomfortable, it no longer held the grandeur it once had. Maybe because they had homed Voldemort and his Death Eaters, letting them torture and curse and murder people on the rug in front of the fire. Being a Death Eater just wasn't fashionable anymore.

There was a constant stream of swearing in her hair, but it was just noise. Hermione was grateful that Ronald was at Hogwarts, but she couldn't imagine cursing him. Well, she could…but only something innocent…A silencing charm, the body bind-curse…But still.

"Malfoy, why did Astoria curse you?"


	4. Chapter 4

A/N- Sorry it's taken me so long to update. Sad how quickly uni, work and birthdays take up your life. I've been struggling crazy bad with writers block- and i think its because I'm finding Hermione boring, so I've decided to write this from Draco's POV.

Just because I like to mix things up.

Sorry its so short- or not proof-read- I've written it pretty quickly just to give you guys something.

Thank you for your pretty pretty reviews, they make me warm and fuzzy.

As if being here wasn't humiliating enough, as if having Hermione fucking Granger as a healer wasn't mortifying enough, she had to press him about being cursed by his own fucking wife. A woman, who, despite everything, was a talentless wench.

He had been a fool to marry her, there was no denying that. Although, he didn't realise that it would put him in hospital.

Under the mercy of Granger- Weasley, whatever.

Draco had rarely felt so pathetic. It had been a long time since he felt so completely useless. He had sworn when he left the Dementors that he would never feel like that again.

And yet, here he was, riddled through with holes like cheese and with walking skills of a one year old. It was beyond pitiful and Draco despised himself.

Draco glared at the woman he'd hated during school; her hair was frizzy as ever, greying at the temples, but otherwise unchanged. There was a challenge in her brown eyes and Draco felt her curiosity like a palpable, movable thing. She never knew when to keep her know-it-all nose out.

Despite the flames licking at the sides of his body, Draco managed to muster his filthiest look. Until a wave of burning agony coursed through his body; had she cast the Cruciatus curse? He felt as though he had been dipped in acid, the fire ripping through his body until settling in a rippling blaze across his core, licking and lapping at his torn body.

He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, at least about anything except the pain that threatened to consume him. All he could think was an eternity of being swallowed up by fire.

A growl tore from Draco's throat, his control slipping with every second.

How could this be working?

A dainty hand, cold to the touch, pressed firmly against his forehead and Draco cringed away, pressing himself as far away from the witch as the bed, and the pain, would allow. But his back snapped, excruciatingly, beneath him and he couldn't help but bow with the pain, crying out. Sweet Merlin, let this end.

"Don't touch me!" His voice sounded so deep, like he'd swallowed gravel. He wanted to pass out, so badly to just fall into dark abyss that was unconsciousness. Why couldn't Granger just put him out of his misery, like an old house elf?

He couldn't bare the touch of her, couldn't stand her so close. He knew she was practically a genius, but hated the thought of Granger helping him, healing him. Her touch was too much to bear and he resented her for it.

This was too much.

"I can help with your pain, you arrogant old fool, sit down, shut up and let me help you."

Her words barely registered, but he knew she would do it. She would help him. She would stop the fire raging through his body, spilling through the gaping holes in his chest, eating him alive. Shit!

He knew he couldn't handle this much longer, he needed out. Draco Malfoy, a pureblood wizard, from a long, powerful bloodline, and he had fallen to this.

The most delicate movement, just a simple nod, had triggered a thousand hotter flames. The icy hand, small yet firm, pressed against his sweaty forehead and he fought the urge to fight her off. He was fighting so many things; he was going to lose control of them all.

A wash of balm coated him. Not completely masking, but soothing. Blissfully growing numb, Draco relaxed into the bed. The flames simmered beneath the surface, a quiet relief in comparison.

"Thank you," he breathed his body liquid with respite.

"It's not a problem." Granger's voice was curt enough that Draco opened his eyes and blinked at her. He didn't know quite what to say to the girl he'd spent years tormenting. He didn't owe her an explanation, but he knew exactly what she was thinking.

The silence stretched on.

Draco didn't know how to say it, he didn't want to be touched full stop. Surely that was obvious? He was practically insulted when she'd brought in damn pureblood healers to try and help him stand. Merlin.

The uncomfortable tension mounted between them and Draco burst. 'Uh, Granger?"

Granger's frizzy curls span as her head flicked towards him, with the same birdlike ferocity old McGonagall had perfected. "Yes?"

She couldn't make this easy. Maybe delirium was a side effect of pain relief, there was no way he would do this in any other circumstance. Yet, he felt she had to know. Touching was strictly forbidden.

"I- I didn't mean-uh-"

Hermione just watched him and the words died in his throat. The way she looked at him riled Draco, but he couldn't help feel like he owed her.

A few more heartbeats and Granger walked away, leaving Draco feeling dumbfounded. Why did he say anything? Draco knew she would believe what she wanted to believe, whether he said something or not. He groaned.

That damn Granger girl had given him a potion she'd made up, probably for fun. And it had bloody worked, of course. She always, _always_, had to be on top. She couldn't never _just_ be a student, and apparently she couldn't _just_ be a healer.

Draco watched her go, resenting her.

She was so damn perfect, wasn't she? Won the war, perfect husband- a professor, of course; who knew Weasley had the talent?- and red-headed children that will no doubt spawn out like the Weasleys do. Sickening. She even looked good.

Although his prejudice had almost died after watching his father crumble to a shell of the man he'd been in Azkaban, he couldn't help but feel that being jealous of Mudblood was…_abhorrent_.

Jealous of a happy little blood traitor and his mudblood wife. Merlin's sake. What had he been reduced to? He hadn't felt this..._Whatever_ he was feeling since the trials.

Draco had spent years protecting and buffering the shattered Malfoy reputation and he could feel it crashing around him. Fucking Hermione Granger! She always got under his skin.

The warmth under his skin ebbed and bubbled, but Draco ignored it. He tried to wiggle his toes, but pain prickled up his shins. The spell may have kept the pain down, but the fear rose up like bile.

He clenched his fists, his knuckled mottled. What if he couldn't walk again? He couldn't be completely dependent. On who? He snorted. Astoria? Crazy fucking bitch- he couldn't believe she'd tried to kill him! And may possibly have crippled him. Shit. _Shit._

It made him think of his son; little Scorpius, a pint sized Draco. The boy with the innocence that Draco never had; his life had always been tainted with the touch of Voldemort. Though Scorpius will suffer because his father had been such a stupid bastard, the boy was smart enough to shrug it off and soldier on.

Draco heaved a sigh, _if only_.

The room was a suffocatingly happy shade of peach; it clashed terribly with the fear that threatened to bubble over and tear him apart.

A week later and fucking Granger was watching him gurgle down more potion; the burning was less intense now, but it slid down his throat like a hot potato. The fire began in his chest and his curses hissed around the ward.

Granger looked insultingly cheerful as Draco coughed and spluttered, his body burning with the fire it contained.

"I think we're ready to try standing today!" She chirped. Oh fucking hell. Draco's stomach dropped even further, his brain clouding as the implications threatened to finish him.

Unease flittered across his face and Granger's face softened, her chocolate eyes watching him. There was no tenderness there, but the bittersweet tinge of pity. Draco felt ill.

"It'll be fine, Draco," She said softly, but keeping her distance. There was a fear in his face that he couldn't hide. Shit, shit, shit, he thought, with feeling.

He couldn't reply, but nodded, casting his eyes down. He wasn't ready for this; he felt like a sixteen year old boy again, having to bow to the snake-like face…No.

He was an adult and he would face this like a man. If this didn't work, Hermione fucking Granger would fix it. And then he would destroy Astoria. He would make her pay for this, he really would. The wispy blonde stick of a woman would fucking regret walking into his life.

The hospital blanket was ripped off him and his legs looked pale and skinny beneath the darkness of the robes. He cringed away; he was repulsed by how juvenile he felt.

The lump in his throat was heavy and hard, he could barely breathe around it. Shit.

Granger's face was weak with pity; her eyes were sad glints of brown below her concerned brow.

That fucking look. He had to do it_, had to_.

Draco's breath shuddered through his body and he swung his spindly legs off the bed.


End file.
